Too bright the sun shone yesterday,
With hot caress on fields of curling corn,—
Burning the green of meadows yet unshorn
Till the wild bird sung there unseen his lay.

Across a thousand miles of prairie grass and grain,
Out of the southwest cave where desert dragons are,—
Cliff dwellers’ kitchen,—oven doors ajar ;—
The scent of cinders on the breath of flame!

Today—above dark continents of cloudy screen,—
From the deep Gulf’s evaporating pool,
Or peaks of melting mountains, white and cool,—
I know the sun still shines, although his face unseen,

How good to live beneath a cloudy sky,
The gray, soft undertones of sober thought
Flow in from all the prairie depths unsought,—
The restful distance soothes the mind and eye.

Too bright for man’s unshaded gaze,—
The Spirit of the universe,—
The Central Sun of Will and Force,
Shines on above this mortal mist and haze.

July, 1906.


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